Slowly an oil spill appears upon the bare sea.
Putter so sound of mind not free to destroy
She beat down upon the goose—it looked like a smashed hand towel.
Thrice she said with flattering fins and intense sighs.
That black death picked up the torn wing and stapled it back on the angel
An oven or a lethargic european swallow is the key
Hope for you is not a morning dove, rather a mourning Indian summer
Even as she flees, the oil spill turns to see the black tear chasing her into the sanctuary
Neighing out in frustration, the shark pounded violently.